


Longitude

by Aja



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sailing, Sexual Fantasy, dark!Will, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Get naked,” Will manages, because it’s the easiest thing to say, and he likes the way Hannibal’s eyes fill with light as he bends to comply. Only Hannibal doesn’t move to his own clothes first; he pulls back and runs his hand over Will’s cheek, thumbing his face, his jawline, the divot below his lower lip. Will breathes in, holds his gaze. It’s been days and he still feels like Hannibal’s arms are around him as they plunge into the water. He feels like Hannibal’s been holding him tight for longer than he can remember.<br/>______________</p><p>Post-finale, post-miraculous survival, post unlikely ocean getaway, post-acceptance that they want to rip throats + each other's clothes off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longitude

**Author's Note:**

> I meant this to be short PWP but alas no, there were feelings. Thanks to @lunchtop for reading all this for me and making it marginally less ridiculous. MURDER HUSBANDS!!!!
> 
> Warning for references to blood play, violence, and murder as part of sexual fantasy play. Unless it isn't just fantasy.

They accelerate and accelerate and suddenly against the rush of wind and terror Hannibal is saying into his ear, “Live for me, Will. Relax.” Will is holding on, holding on, and Hannibal shifts sharply against the fall, jerking Will forward, pulling him over and upright, so that their feet are pointed straight down into the water. 

Will has just enough time to wonder if Hannibal is trying to make a bit of performance art out of the jump before they strike the water like a bullet, clinging to each other and ripping a thick black gash across the surface of the ocean.

Later when Will googles ‘bridge jump survival’ and learns that entering the water feet forward is the best way to survive he’ll realize that Hannibal had known what to do, had been thinking ahead.

When he pulls Will up out of the waves by his thin collar, shivering and bruised all over, all Will thinks is that he’s glad he went over to the dark side with a surgeon.  
___________

There’s a boat Hannibal keeps on the opposite side of the cove, maybe a quarter of a mile or so on the other side of the cliff. They nearly freeze to death getting there because they can’t get out of the water; there’s very little point in climbing onto the sand because the shore is non-existent, the rocks slippery. Hannibal collapses from exhaustion against the quay while they try to drag themselves onto the pier and into the boat, so Will forces his legs to move and hauls Hannibal up himself, heavy and solid and freezing cold in Will’s arms. The bay on this side of the cove is eerie and noiseless; the stars overhead are black and numberless. Will is drunk. Alive.

Once in the boat Hannibal sets their course and finds them warm blankets and space heaters. Their teeth chatter as they gradually get warm; it’s too cold to speak for a long time, but Hannibal insists on checking Will all over for internal bleeding as he strips Will of his clothes. Hannibal’s own skin is purpling rapidly over his thighs, and Will is worried about him, but he seems fine, as calm and controlled as he was before.

When Hannibal finally turns on the shower, Will leans in, tips his icy fingers against Hannibal’s cheek. They stay there for a moment, hovering, until Hannibal sends him a smile and tugs him into the shower with him. Afterwards, finally warm, Will stands and leans against Hannibal as Hannibal wraps him in layers of slightly oversized flannel shirts. He crawls into Hannibal’s bed and huddles under the blankets, shivering, wondering, wanting, lulled to sleep by the rocking of the boat on the sea.  
________ 

While he’s under the influence of the copious amounts of Vicodin Hannibal lets him have, Will says things. 

“I like your hands,” he says when Hannibal fetches him water and smoothes his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch. Hannibal is back in warm sweaters. The fleece brushes his skin.

“Thanks for not killing my dogs that one time,” he says at another point.

“That was some time ago,” Hannibal says lightly.

“Long ago,” says Will. “Far, far away.”

“Sailors used to not know longitude,” he says an unknown number of days later. Hannibal is lying warm against his side, peaceful in the sway of the berth. “So they’d crash right into things when they went right or left.”

“You mean East or West.”

“East, West,” says Will. “They’d just crash and crash and couldn’t ever stop it until someone finally found longitude. That’s all it took, just figuring out how to read the angles of the earth.”

“They made gallant efforts, though,” Hannibal says. He rolls over to face Will, and Will is glad of it. Their bodies aren’t touching; not yet. “Ship’s logs and moon-gazing. It was all very romantic. They did their best.”

“I like this better,” Will says. “Straight and on course.”

“No doubts about your direction?” Hannibal is sitting up, partway, leaning his head against his hand and looking down at Will. 

“Nothing but smooth sailing,” Will replies. He lets himself reach up and run his thumb along the pulse point of Hannibal’s wrist.

Hannibal’s smile is soft and satisfied.  
________

A few nights later Will wakes to a familiar itch under his skin and a feeling of heat and anticipation that tells him he’s all better now. He’s alone in the cabin, so he takes his time showering. Rubs one off quick and easy just from thinking about the look on Hannibal’s face right before they went for Dolarhyde together.

He towels down, slips into boxers and a shirt that's almost exactly his size. Then he grabs two wine glasses and a bottle of beaujolais and goes to find Hannibal.

The ship’s deck is bathed in moonlight, and the navigation lights are off—probably because there’s a freighter chugging soundlessly through the water a few miles away. Hannibal is leaning against the wheel and watching the moonlit horizon. It occurs to Will he hasn’t asked where they’re going. He’ll get around to it at some point, he thinks. It doesn’t really matter.

He sits the wine glasses on the deck and slips his hand over Hannibal’s where it rests against the wheel. He slides his fingers over Hannibal’s, slowly. Hannibal’s hands are long and slender, and Will wasn’t lying: he does like them. He drags his fingertips up over Hannibal’s wrist and under the edge of his sweater. Hannibal draws in a breath.

“Good evening, Hannibal,” Will says. Hannibal cuts him a sharp glance and Will holds it. Maybe he won’t let Hannibal open the wine bottle after all. He runs his fingers up even further along the thick cord of Hannibal’s forearm. Then he just goes for it, leaning in and crowding him, going for the solid warmth he knows he’ll find in the curve of Hannibal’s shoulder. 

“Are you sure about this?” Hannibal asks.

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that,” Will says, pushing his other hand beneath Hannibal’s sweater to palm his ribs where the bruises are fading. It probably still stings Hannibal, more than a little, but he doesn’t show it. 

“Can’t have you changing your mind and throwing me over the side of the boat,” Hannibal says dryly. Will leans in and nips Hannibal’s shoulder in response. Hannibal tips his head back and closes his eyes.

“I know you want me in your bed,” Will says. And Hannibal’s right, he’s not sure about this part, about what happens next, but he’s sure he’s done waiting to find out.

“Only if you want to be there, dear Will,” Hannibal says. His voice is soft, so raspy when he gets like this, the way Will knows now only he can make him.

“I do want,” says Will. He puts on his most persuasive face, the one Hannibal never quite buys, but always seems hopelessly charmed by nonetheless. Then he runs his hand over Hannibal’s stomach and down beneath the top of his briefs. Being with Hannibal in the shower after the fall wasn’t anything but clinical, a wave of relief and exhaustion. They’d barely noticed anything but the warm water. Now, though, Will notices the heat of Hannibal’s body under his palm, the way Hannibal’s muscles jolt and shift beneath his touch. He can feel the start of Hannibal’s pubic hair trailing down to his groin, and he brushes it at the dip of Hannibal’s pelvis and feels Hannibal completely unspool in his arms.

“I’ll let you put the wine away again first,” Will says amiably. “But then I want you in bed and I want you to fuck me.”

Hannibal doesn’t speak. He loops his arm around Will’s waist and tugs him below, leaving the wine to spoil on the deck.

________

Will has thought about this before—thought about it a lot, really, in abstract ways that mostly entailed wondering what Hannibal thought about when he jerked off. Now that he knows the answer is probably him, the thought heats him through. Hannibal puts away the wine and the glasses and then backs him up to the stern, where the bed hugs the side of the rear cabin not hosting the shower. It’s a large enough bed, but it feels too small as Will’s knees bump against it. 

He tugs Hannibal down to him, and their lips brush almost accidentally. Hannibal draws back but Will doesn’t let him, arching up and kissing him, imagining what might have happened if he had allowed himself this before the fall. Hannibal gasps into the kiss, opening up for Will, letting himself be tugged back onto the bed. It’s a small boat, which Will suspects is less about Hannibal’s personal preference and more about the logistics of making a swift getaway, but the bed is the best thing Will’s ever slept on, and the sheets are silk. 

“Hannibal,” he says, because he can, and this time he makes an effort to get to know the shape of Hannibal’s mouth under his. He’s thought about this, too, he realizes all at once: about kissing Hannibal just like this, about the way their mouths would collide and the way Hannibal would keep leaning in for more, just like this, like he can’t get enough of Will or the way they move together. 

“Get naked,” Will manages, because it’s the easiest thing to say, and he likes the way Hannibal’s eyes fill with light as he bends to comply. Only Hannibal doesn’t move to his own clothes first; he pulls back and runs his hand over Will’s cheek, thumbing his face, his jawline, the divot below his lower lip. Will breathes in, holds his gaze. It’s been days and he still feels like Hannibal’s arms are around him as they plunge into the water. He feels like Hannibal’s been holding him tight for longer than he can remember.

He surges forward and lifts the sweater over Hannibal’s chest, suddenly desperate to get his hands on him. Hannibal reminds him of something leonine, deceptive sinew and coiled strength in his lean body, an animal waiting to strike. But he won’t strike now, Will thinks, stroking his sides as Hannibal obligingly drops his shirt to the floor and then kicks off his pants. He won’t strike at all without Will, and maybe not even without Will’s permission. He shivers and bites Hannibal’s lower lip, then bites the curve of his chin just below that. Then he nips at Hannibal’s jaw line and the edge of his ear lobe and he’s sinking his teeth into Hannibal’s adam’s apple and sinking dark, gutteral sounds into the curve of Hannibal’s throat as he imagines biting down harder, drawing blood, taking it because he knows Hannibal will let him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he thinks, and all at once he’s so hard he suddenly feels lightheaded. 

He begins to draw back, but Hannibal lets out a strangled sound and reaches down to push Will’s boxers down and stroke him. His hand is rough and unsteady and Will has never felt anything as good, not even the give of his knife into Dolarhyde’s stomach, because that was one thing, that was taking out a monster, but Hannibal—Will has Hannibal at heel, his to command and master and fuck and fuck with and _god_ —

Will jerks back, gasps, “Get your cock in me, fuck, I need it, come on,” and leans back against the bed. He’s still half-clothed, boxers halfway down his thighs and red cock jutting above them, shirt unbuttoned only halfway. But Hannibal bends down and closes his mouth over Will’s hard-on before Will can stop him, and the hot wet shock of it is so good Will comes immediately, without a sound, just a jolt of surprise straight past Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal looks up at him and smiles beatifically as he wipes away Will’s come with the back of his hand. His eyes are black and gleaming in the dim light of the cabin, where pools of moonlight sift through the spotlights, spilling off his pale flesh. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” Will says, but he’s smiling, grinning even. Hannibal leans up over him, sweat just beginning to pool in the dip of his throat.

“I found myself unable to resist,” Hannibal says. “As I am perpetually unable to resist anything you offer me.”

“How long?” Will asks, shifting so he can finally get his hand on Hannibal’s cock, feel the warm weight of it jerk and spasm against his palm under his touch. “You have clothes my size in the closet,” he says, stroking him slowly. “Two toothbrushes. Even the music in the CD case. Bob Dylan. Tom Waits.”

Hannibal shuts his eyes, and Will has to kiss him again. When he speaks again, it’s breathless, and Hannibal’s cock in his hand is rock-hard and heavy. “How long was this boat waiting for us?”

Hannibal’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Will silently for a long moment.

“Hannibal,” Will coaxes, running his thumb over the slit. Hannibal draws in a sharp breath. 

“I got the boat several years before we met," he says, slowly canting his hips up into the stroke. “I don’t know when I started filling it with reminders of you and the life I wanted with you. It became its own sort of mind palace, I suppose. If you wish me to fuck you, you should draw back very soon,” he adds, haltingly, and Will obediently takes his hand away, appreciating the way Hannibal’s body reacts to the loss of him.

“Don’t use a condom,” he says. “I know they test you in prison, I know you’re clean. I’m clean. I don’t want it.” 

Hannibal says, “Tell me what you do want,” and lays him down and works him open, stopping to decorate Will’s chest with kisses as he slides Will’s shirt off. There’s a bottle of lube on the nightstand that’s been sitting there ostentatiously for the last few days. A foregone conclusion. Will spreads for Hannibal as he spills its contents onto his fingers. It smells like jasmine, and a little like Will’s own terrible aftershave. He laughs, and Hannibal looks at him curiously, half-amused, half-fascinated. 

“Want you to hold me down while we fuck,” Will starts. Easy enough. He leans back against the sheets while Hannibal works a finger inside of him. It feels hot and slick and interesting, but not painful. Hannibal’s nails aren’t the manicured gems they once were, not after so much prison time, and Will can tell he’s being careful with him. He squirms a little and presses down into the touch, already starting to harden again. Hannibal hums and adds another finger.

“More,” Hannibal says.

Will closes his eyes and focuses on relaxing. “Want us to hunt together,” he says. “Moonlit night like this, no one around... just you and me and the prey.”

“You know you can have that,” Hannibal says. “As many times as you want.”

“Want you to hold a kill while I slash its throat,” Will says. “Teach me—teach me how to carve someone—oh, fuck—” Hannibal has added a third finger and found the bundle of nerve endings that light up when he strokes them, and Will nearly jerks off the bed when he brushes that spot again. “Fuck, fuck, I want you to let me hold someone while I watch you carve them to pieces,” he says. “Drain the blood out of them til you’re soaked in it, fuck, you look so... god, get in me.”

And Hannibal says, “Oh, Will,” like he’s lost, and cants Wills hips up long enough to hoist Will’s legs over his shoulders and slide inside of him. His cock is long and thick and he pushes in and keeps going until Will feels stretched and full, so full his nerve endings are on fire. He shudders reflexively from the newness of it and feels Hannibal inside of him all the way from his toes to his fingertips. “Is that what you need, Will?” Hannibal whispers, reaching a hand up to swipe hair from his sweat-soaked forehead.

“Yeah, fuck,” says Will. “God, don’t stop, just give it to me.”

“I want to give you everything,” says Hannibal, and he moves inside Will, slowly at first, until his thighs are trembling from the effort. “I know,” Will whispers, pulling Hannibal’s head down to kiss him. Hannibal’s body slides against his, and Will is overwhelmed by the heat of Hannibal’s chest as it rises and falls against his, the way his thighs piston against him, the way Hannibal has brought him further than anyone else could and still wants more, and more, and more. He squirms and fights for purchase against the slick sheets, winding up fisting the bedspread with one hand and gripping Hannibal’s hair with the other one.

“Fuck me, god, don’t stop, it’s so good, it’s so... fuck, Hannibal...”

“Tell me.” Hannibal’s voice breaks on the last vowel, “What else do you want?”

Will shifts and arches up. Hannibal shifts too, hitting Will’s prostate again, and then again, until he has Will writhing and begging, a litany of curses rolling off his tongue.

“Tell me,” Hannibal says again.

“Fuck,” Will manages. “I want us to—ah—play tic-tac-toe with a knife and a torso.”

Hannibal trembles over him. “Alive?” he says, leaning down to press sloppy kisses to Will’s shoulder. 

Will turns and yanks him into a proper kiss, moaning into it. “Of course, god, yes, _yes_.”

“Go on,” Hannibal musters, voice unsteady.

“Wanna... wanna paint you with blood,” Will says. “You look so hot I can’t, I need to see you like that again—I can’t wait, please, I—”

“You will,” Hannibal says, thrusting even faster. “You’ll see me like that, only you, Will, just for you. Tell me.”

“I...” Will tightens his legs around Hannibal’s shoulders and says helplessly, “Kiss me,” feeling pieces of himself slipping away with every thrust. Hannibal’s mouth is on his immediately. Will strokes his tongue, wills him not to pull away, but Hannibal sees through him too easily, always has, and he breaks the kiss long enough to say, “Tell me _all_ of it,” with his hand around Will’s cock, and Will is undone.

“I want to carve out a heart and feed it to you, piece by piece,” he gasps. “Slip it into your lips and watch you eat it raw.”

“Would you kiss me with the blood still running down my chin?” Hannibal asks. 

“I would demand it,” Will says, and then he’s coming, harder than he’s ever come in his life, spurting long clean jets of come over his chest and Hannibal’s, while Hannibal’s face gleams above his, glistening with sweat and pure unabashed joy as he follows Will over the edge into climax.  
________

Hannibal tucks his chin into Will’s shoulder and breathes deep, letting them come down with his body still locked inside of Will’s. Will runs his hand along Hannibal’s side, careful not to graze the bullet wound, even though the bandages have been off for days now. 

“See?” he says. “Smooth sailing.”

Hannibal lifts his head and looks at him for another one of those searching, assessing moments. “You didn’t mean all those things,” he says, slowly drawing himself out of Will and leaving Will feeling strangely full and empty at once. “I know you.”

Will shoves Hannibal over and rolls awkwardly against his side. “I want to mean them,” he says. 

“You want to, and you don’t want to.”

Will pulls him into a kiss. “Didn’t the fall make us new men?”

“Or else better versions of the old ones,” Hannibal says wryly. He kisses Will again, then moves off the bed. Will listens to him rummaging in the bathroom, the running water, the noiseless footfall when Hannibal returns with warm wet towels.

“They always knew longitude was there,” Will says while Hannibal is smoothing his skin with the damp cloth.

“They just had to find the right tool by which to measure it,” Hannibal responds.

 _I know you_ , Will thinks. _I’ve taken the length of you._

And Hannibal has the measure of him, too.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Longitude_ by Dava Sobel is a good book. I'm on [Tumblr](http://bookshop.tumblr.com) and [Twitter,](http://twitter.com/ajaromano) come say hi!


End file.
